


The Captain's Wife, or Dangerous Liaisons

by shirogiku



Category: Black Sails
Genre: All The Love For Miranda, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballroom Dancing, Captain & Mrs. McGraw AU, F/M, Humour, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Poly, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Secrets, Still Cute Marrieds, The Royal Navy, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain McGraw of HMS <i>Tiger</i> comes home from Gibraltar with an injury and a poorly concealed chip on his shoulder, but his wife's plans for their future far outreach even his wildest ambitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Captain's Wife, or Dangerous Liaisons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts), [andrea_deer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [andrea_deer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> James McGraw and Miranda McGraw (nee Barlow) are happily married. He was ambitious with his career and a wife from the society helped with that. She got a bit of a reputation, which made the prospects of marriage rather gloomy looking, so her family did settle for a commoner with bright future in the navy.
> 
> And then James is assigned to work with lord Thomas Hamilton. 
> 
> (I'd be happy to see all and any exploration of how this changes Thomas (who is probably the subject of much gossip and does not have the back-up in form of the loyal and loving Mirana) and James (who would probably be further into his career and so much more sure of himself with years and years of Miranda's support). Also, James having so much more to lose here, but still being so completely drawn to Thomas. Also Thomas somehow seducing both of them with his charm and smiles. But those are just my ideas, take where you want it! :))
> 
>    
>  **A/N:** Hey, OP, I've left a lot behind the scenes, this is basically how James meets Thomas in this AU and how they come to work together, I hope you like it :) /neeerves
> 
> Also, I wouldn't have finished this without Cynthia's cheering <3

* * *

“ _The fourteenth of May. Sir John Leake returned hither some days ago from Gibraltar, with the Confederate Squadron under his Command._ ” The newsheet rustled softly, the sound nearly drowned out by the street bustle outside the windows. James liked them tall and expansive like in a flag officer’s suite, even if on some mornings, it did mean waking up from the sunlight heating up his face.

Miranda read on, “ _Letters from thence of the twenty-sixth past say, that since that day sevenight the Enemy had ceased throwing any Bombs into the Town; and that they were drawing off their Cannon in order to raise the Siege_.” She paused and repeated incredulously: “‘ _Bombs_ ’? You haven’t said a word about any _bombs_ raining down on the poor townsfolk’s heads, sir!”

With a barely suppressed groan, he burrowed his head deeper under the pillow. It smelt of home and Miranda, for all that they kept separate bedrooms. “And what did you think a siege was, summer in Vauxhall?” He instantly regretted the tone, hoping that it had at least been muffled.

“I can’t hear a word of what you say, my dear,” was his wife’s cheerful reply. “So if you wish to engage in witty repartee, you shall have to come out and make yourself upright.”

“‘Upright’ is vastly overrated, I find.”

“Oh very well, have it your way then.” She skimmed down the sheet: the French forces had retreated to the Portuguese border, the Walloons to Cadiz - and the Spaniards had been left behind to form a joke of a blockade, if you asked James.

“A few bombs is nothing,” said he, kicking back the covers and pushing himself up with his good hand. She pretended not to notice the struggle. “Wait until this bloody squabble drags on for another five years.” Not that either of them had any right to complain - she had expensive tastes and he would take all the prize money that he could get.

She reached out and tickled his foot with a feather. “The no war talk in bed rule hasn’t gone anywhere in your absence! But since _you_ are the one who broke it, do explain why your name is nowhere in the news.”

He snorted, withdrawing his foot before she could mount another assault. “Why should it be?”

“Hmm, perhaps in some less official source.”

“Don’t bother,” he told her as she hunted through her sizeable stack of publications. In the meanwhile, he attempted to pour himself some water. “Sir Leake shall wear the laurels, and the rest of us shall count our blessings.” His left hand was _almost_ as good as his right; he should have been able to go on as if nothing were amiss.

“Let me.” At once, she was on her feet, ignoring his grumbling that he wasn’t an invalid. “You, James, are a hero, and you deserve to be celebrated as such. It was your wits and your initiative that have decided the course of the battle, was it not? You have wrestled such a crucial base from the Bourbons, and you don’t get a _single_ mention? Now that is a disgrace if I have ever seen one!”

A nasty part of him wanted to catch her at not actually comprehending any of the finer points of naval warfare - but even in his gloom, he would not dare to take that tone with her. What she lacked in understanding of combat, she more than made up in her grasp of politics, be it at sea or within her own domain. She followed his progress up the Admiralty’s List with almost more zeal than he himself did, and he could ask for no champion in London more staunch than her. So he let her affix the sling without a word.

She stroked his hair.  “Where are you, James? Still in Gibraltar?

He shrugged before wetting his throat. “Neither here nor there, to be honest. You know I’m no good at homecomings.”

That damned stray splinter.  The surgeon and _three_ different physicians had assured him that it was out, but he could have sworn that it was moving, burying itself deeper in his arm as if someone was twisting it.

“And then you wonder why I begrudge your first wife all these lines on your forehead.” Miranda traced them with her fingers. “The service does age men so prematurely.”

“‘First wife’?” He could have choked on the water!

There was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, I always forget you are, in fact, married to a crowd of men.” His glare was entirely lost on her. “Anyhow, don’t you wish to hear how _I_ have spent my lonely Season?”

Lonely, ha. Well, to be fair, he _had_ been away since the Squadron’s departure last year. The resounding victory for the Allies more than justified his absence, and Miranda had known the score of being a naval wife, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty and strange in his own house.

She spoke of thespians and assemblies, private musical performances and the eternal shuffling of the deck that was the capital’s high society. With his full attention on her, he called himself a fool thrice over for not having noticed it right away - the glow, the ethereal lightness imbuing her every look, every gesture, every turn of her head. Far from forlorn, he had come back to find her more radiant than on the day when they were wed. And since this was the woman who would share the carriage with a nobody lieutenant, he did not have to be a brilliant thinker to predict a new affair.

“There, there.” She cupped his cheek. “You are with me at last, my future Admiral.” it was nigh impossible to disabuse her of the notion that he would be if not the youngest then definitely the handsomest in history. “There is someone you absolutely _must_ meet, and no other option!”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm, glancing around as if she had been hiding that person in her closet, which had actually happened before - and he had faithfully played the angry cuckold until neither of them could hold back the laughter.

“Not P. Wright, surely? Or have you finally unmasked the rogue?”

The letters that _did_ reach him, kept him posted of her private quest to discover the identity behind the pseudonym. A man - or a woman - who wrote of his fellow rogues and villains as if they were worthy of contemplation rather than contempt was a worthy mystery indeed. According to Miranda, London’s conservative circles were still reeling from _A Man of Manners._

“Yes and no.” Her smile held that, and a legion other mysteries. “Now be a dear and help me choose what to wear tonight. What you need is a proper distraction, and I have been promised good music.”

* * *

Their part of Covent Garden was a bustling, vibrant area. James had had a hand in decorating and bringing in an occasional tapestry or sculpture, but apart from the library, the house was very obviously all Miranda. She made no secret of delighting in living in equal proximity to the genteel world and actresses, businesswomen and the illegitimate offspring of prostitutes and indiscreet girls, and the noise did not bother her any.

Captain McGraw and his wife ill-liked silence and would rather play with fire.

The gown was green, the jewelry resplendent in the candlelight, and the music not just good - it was superb. Not even the stifling heat - the summer was shaping up to be an import from some desert country - could ruin the sense of anticipation that she had infected James with.

She leaned into him, murmuring:

“Can you guess which one it is?”

He scanned the clustering guests with an assessing gaze. Trust it to Miranda to turn it into a game. She, for her part, picked favourites as if she were a queen, and as far as he was concerned, she was. However, he was yet to see anybody who would merit the stir.

“Let us take a turn around the room,” she said, looping her arm through his left one. “Or would you like a spyglass?”

“You are determined to keep my hand busy tonight, aren’t you?” he quipped.

She murmured in his ear: “Only if you make a good first impression.”

“When do I ever _not_ make it?” he demanded in mock affront.

He played a little game of his own - pointing out candidates with all the charm of a candle stub with a drowned wick and describing her dangerous liaisons with them to her. Her eyes promised a retaliation most dreadful the moment he was at her mercy.

Uproarious laughter drew them towards yet another half-circle of lords. Years and years with Miranda, and it still felt like he was not in on the joke and ought to stand at attention. He _probably_ should memorise their names at some point, but then again, the back of Miranda’s fan had never failed him so far. The source of the merriment was a fine gentleman with a glass of red wine, describing a picnic outside Barcelona. As James and Miranda attached themselves to the group, the picnic went from flirting with the scandalous to embracing the racy.

James couldn’t help raising his eyebrows at that. Smiling like innocence itself, the gentleman caught his look and suddenly his expression warmed as if they were old friends. “Captain and Mrs. Captain, that is, McGraw! What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!” He held out his hand. The other three showed nothing but an impenetrable blankness. “Why, I do believe we owe to Captain McGraw and his HMS _Tiger_ our grand victory off Cabrita Point.”

James cast a sidelong look at Miranda, who did nothing to assuage his discomfiture.

“Thomas Hamilton.” The handshake was firm, and somewhat ink-stained. “I have been told just this morning that I have something to do with an Earl, but that always confuses me.”

Lord Hamilton’s confusion did not extend to his wig or his attire, though. “That sounds dreadful,” James replied wryly.

“Oh yes, it is!”

Another lord remarked that Sir John Leake James McGraw was not.

“We must honour _all_ our heroes,” Lord Hamilton declared with sudden gravity. “Not only those whose names tempt one into punning.” The trio shuffled their feet and dispersed as if a gust of wind was to blame. “And I haven’t even made the pun yet.” He sighed a little.

“Do we know each other?” James was afraid to ask what the pun would have been. This was all very… irregular.

“If you count Mrs. McGraw’s stories of your exploits.” Now he was feeling downright indecent. “But you would rather not, let us wipe the slate clean and be strangers.”

Which seemed suspiciously like an invitation to ask the questions crowding his mind. He did no such thing, not being in the habit of acting before regaining his balance. What _had_ Miranda been saying behind his back?

Having recently been to Vienna, and Catalonia before that, Lord Hamilton had a lot to say about the plight of the people there. “What say you, as a man of action? Oughtn't we support their fight for independence?”

“Perhaps, but the Kingdoms of Aragon and Valencia have more to offer than a noble plight.” He personally liked to call noble plights what they were - lost causes.

“No cause is truly lost so long as it has a champion.”

He had not expected that. “Do you spend any time at all in London, my lord?”

“Please call him Thomas,” Miranda interjected. “For my sake, or I shall feel embarrassed.” Lord Hamilton - Thomas - nodded in encouragement.

James was _pretty_ certain that this was not how encountering your wife’s new paramour was supposed to go. But if their private life ever conformed to any outside expectations, it was always accidental.

“It takes a brave man,” he said after a pause. “To travel in wartime.”

“Travel _always_ takes bravery - you never know when a wheel or a preconception of yours will be shattered.”

He snorted. “Which one happens more often?”

“Er, the former, I am sorry to say.”

Miranda laughed. “Some people are so open-minded that they have to cover their heads with extra care.”

“I shall remember that,” Thomas huffed. “Not all of us are so naturally endowed, you know.”

His misadventures on the road could fill an entire book, ranging from being waylaid to boarding wrong ships. And such was the vibrancy of his telling that James did not remember where he was until Miranda pressed them to taste some cold lobster.

“No more wine for me,” said Lord Hamilton, and James found himself wishing that he could read the nuances of his face and tone. “Or my head shall completely turn before the dance begins.” With that, he bowed his head and left them to it.

“What…” James coughed and lowered his voice: “... was that?”

“When a lady and a gentleman do it, I do believe it is called flirting.” Miranda was observing James over the rim of her glass like a curious exhibit. “And when it happens between a pair of gentlemen, it is masked and put into plays.”

Normally, he would trust Miranda’s judgement, but something about Thomas Hamilton and the way she had introduced him was just… too much. James was caught between his so very sensible anger at her indiscretion - to think that she would expose him like that! - and more convoluted need to test Lord Hamilton and reveal _him_ for a fraud and a rake.

Miranda compressed her lips against any further comments escaping her. James held out his left hand: “Shall we?”

They went through the formal moves, Miranda with her customary breathtaking grace, James deep in thought. When they came together again, she said above the swell of the ballroom, “I do believe we are being watched.”

What game _are_ you playing now, he wanted to ask her. And which of us are you trying to tempt?

Lord Hamilton showed nothing but gaiety and grace; for all the world absorbed in his partner. James followed his motions as they moved up the dance. His countenance was flushed, but so were everyone else’s.

“You really should read his latest work,” Miranda commented. “Sir Mannering will surprise you.”

Partners were exchanged, and James gained the opportunity to fix his eyes on her with Thomas, a beautiful couple. There should have been no need or call to pull James in

“How is your head?” Miranda asked Thomas during a lull. “Fresh air does wonders for it, I hear.”

James was about to protest that they had already been monopolising his lordship, but even there, he was upstaged.

“James, darling, however shall we make our escape?”

Thomas chuckled. “It must be lovely having such a strategist in the house.”

“Yes, when he _is_ in the house, I do make a good use of his skills.”

Annoyed but resigned to her whims, James led them to a glass door, away from the crowd. In the garden, she took his and Thomas’s arms, and guided them along the path.

“But I have been so selfish with my tales!” Thomas cried. “Not once have I asked you to relate your battles.”

“Why, is it your bedtime already?”

Thomas swore that he would not be put to sleep by an obscure word or two, claiming that he had done his research.

James did not trust that claim overmuch. “Why Mainwaring and not Morgan?”  

“The puns,” Miranda said immediately.

“The memories,” Thomas explained. “Sir Mainwaring, or as I have styled him, Sir Mannering is farther removed from this day and age, and his story appealed to me. A pirate admiral redeemed in the service of the king. I admit I have taken certain liberties with his entirely fictional protege and that protege’s relationship with Buckingham, but it’s not _contrary_ to history either.”

“Hmm.”

“Or will you, too, insist that such relationships deserve nothing better than public scorn and disgust?”

There were many things that James could say to that. He opted for: “Guard your secrets more carefully, Mr. Wright.”

“The moon is so beautiful tonight,” Miranda put in smoothly. “Come, surprise me with a sonnet.”

It soon became a joust that carried them all the way to the secluded summerhouse. Unfortunately, some other guests had got the same idea, and they hurried back only just in time to avoid a grave faux pas. Miranda awarded both of them with kisses, James watching Thomas, and Thomas watching James.

“Well, you have kept me waiting long enough,” she declared, tugging them down to a bench concealed by the tall shrubbery. “Thomas, tell him that he has been an inspiration.”

“You have,” Lord Hamilton breathed out, meeting James’s eyes as he kissed Miranda’s hand.

“James, do stop fretting.”

But he could not. The night was warm and filled with the scent of greenness and nocturnal flowers, and he had been living on the precipice too long not to recognise a new bend.

“You do what you came here for,” he muttered, marching away with his heart in his throat. “I’ll keep watch.”

Their dismayed silence was followed by frantic whispering. Finally, Miranda _dared_ James to hold his position. And for a while, he did, effortlessly visualising her every movement by the rustling of her skirts. They could not be loud, but by God, did Thomas’s quickening breath sound erotic.

He swung on his heel. “ _I_ have inspired you to write a scandalous play?” he demanded. “Without us having ever met?”

“I have based all my seafarers on you,” Thomas uttered as his wig landed on the grass.

Unrepentant, Miranda rode him harder, gripping his shoulders for purchase. “I write long letters.”

Miranda had been writing _letters_ about him to a notorious playwright, quite possibly before establishing who the said playwright was. There must be some logical explanation, but he would be damned if he could see it when they were doing that and _that_.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to join?” Lord Hamilton inquired, like before a round of whist.

If he had been a _truly_ vengeful man… Oh wait a moment. “At about half past five in the morning, being within two miles of Cabrita Point, we sighted five sail-” Miranda groaned, burying her face against Thomas’s neck, who couldn’t stop laughing.

Undeterred, James continued his account, seating himself on the bench _just_ out of their reach. Despite his best efforts - he spared them no detail - Miranda managed to finish, which was a testimony to some uncommon skill on Thomas’s part.

He was not thinking about that right now. Truly, he was not.

Miranda swore off sailors as the worst of the worst. Thomas rescued his wig and moved to stand behind James, smoothing his hands down James’s shoulders. “Does your wound trouble you?”

“Not terribly,” James lied.

“Do you feel… a certain stiffness?”

Ah. “In the joint.” He looked up to be dazed by Thomas’s eyes, so bright even without illumination.

“You should not be shy about your… complaints.”

The rain came out of nowhere, falling fast as if specifically to chase them back indoors. James was left simmering and cycling through the entire night’s worth of conversation in his head, examining it from every angle.

He found the play in Miranda’s half of the library. He found it again on his own desk, buried under the paperwork and log books. It was exactly as bad as it had sounded. His arm, bound tight across his chest, did not pain him, but he could not cock a pistol with it either.

Not that he was in a fighting mood. With a start, he realised that Lord Hamilton was someone whom he would like to get to know gradually, by increments, so it was a relief that nothing had transpired between them.

Before long, he was back in Miranda’s good graces, but Lord Hamilton proved to be elusive, and she would not mention him before James did. Two weeks into the wait, he received an invitation to Lord Hamilton’s house.

“I can’t refuse it, can I?” he asked Miranda over the tea.

“Do you want to?” she replied levelly, studying her cup like the most fascinating item in the room.

“His _house_ , Miranda.” He dismissed their maid before continuing: “Listen, I appreciate everything that you do for me - I really do - but an _Earl’s_ son! With a reputation-”

“-none of which is on _his_ name-”

“It is simply too conspicuous!”

At once, he knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. She had pursued Thomas on her own and for herself, and that James should be invited into the arrangement was an offer from the heart, not a calculated ploy.

He apologised. “I will be discreet.”

She smiled. “Aren’t you always?”

* * *

If he had still been a nobody, Thomas’s residence would have made an impression. As things were, he picked up on more than the superficial gilt. The only rooms that showed any real signs of life were the library and the study, while the rest seemed to there because Thomas could not get away with _not_ having them. He collected rare volumes and rarer maps, the latter filled with as many fantastical beasts as his writing was filled with hidden innuendo. If you believed his images of the world, it was worth exploring.

“I have read about your man of manners,” James said after they had run out of more general subjects to discuss. “And i have to say, your view of pirates is entirely idealised.” A different sort of man would have taken offence at the implication that he could serve as a model.

Miranda would not let him read _any_ of her correspondence with Thomas, especially that relevant to his person.

He was tense, expecting Thomas to cross the line, and both braced for it and woefully unprepared.

Thomas by the window, outlined in the diffused light. “What would you say to hoisting your flag in the West Indies, Captain?”

He rose from his seat in a jolt. “What is this, a bribe?” A contrivance to send him as far away as possible while Miranda frolicked around with Thomas on his Grand Broken Wheel Tours? Did Thomas even have that much influence?

Thomas turned to face him. “Believe it or not, it is an opportunity. For all three of us.” He gestured at the charts of what James recognised as the Bahamas. “As you may or may not already know, my father is one of the Lord Proprietors-”

Not a single illicit touch had been exchanged, and James was already in a state. Miranda’s mad - wonderful - correspondent wanted to sail into those waters, pardon every pirate there and then practically build his own utopia.

He was quick to fill the glasses with wine before James could get a word in. “To new beginnings?”

“I haven’t actually said ‘yes’,” he pointed out. He was surrounded by presumptuous aristocrats with no sense of caution whatsoever.

They had stolen his own tactic, acting so quickly that the opponent never caught on until it was too late! The West Indies were hell on earth next to the Med!

Thomas peered at him earnestly. “Won’t you, though?”

He supposed that he would have to _consider_ it.

**Author's Note:**

> Miranda is reading from [_The London Gazette_ dated 14 May 1705](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Leake#/media/File:London_Gazette\(1705\).jpg) detailing the return of Admiral Leake from Gibraltar after the Battle of Cabrita Point.
> 
> [Mainwaring](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Mainwaring) is an interesting dude.
> 
> The name of James's ship isn't based on any real historical ship in particular, it just seemed to fit.


End file.
